At The Hands Of The Doctor
by BlackFyre94
Summary: Oneshot - the destruction of the human race, at the hands of the Doctor.


**I don't own _Doctor Who_ - it belongs to the BBC.**

High above the ruins of a burning world, the Doctor stands. He is watching over them, standing silent vigil as everything they were, everything they are, everything they ever could be is cast down into flame and fire. He will give them this, at least. Will do them the courtesy of watching the horror he has wrought.

How had it come to this? For countless years he had been a symbol of hope and of freedom, appearing in myth and legend and fireside stories as the Doctor, saviour, defender, and when needs must, soldier. A mysterious figure, manifesting only when danger threatened, arriving just in time to shield a thousand civilisations from harm, to protect a thousand species, to banish a thousand demons. So many depended on him, crying out every single day for help, for guidance, to right the wrongs that their own greedy, clutching hands had brought, just so they could do it all again the next day, and the next, and the next. And he had tried. He had tried so hard to look after them all, throwing himself out of one century and into the next faster that the eye could blink, in a vain attempt to be everywhere and helping everyone at once.

"…_he saves worlds, rescues civilisations, defeats terrible creatures…"_

Echoes of a memory haunt him, the long-dead voices sounding in his head over and over and over, the only remnants of what remained of that life. He no longer saves and defends, but condemns.

He gave so much to them. He gave them everything. He lost his home, his people, the one he loved. His freedom. Everything he had hoped, everything he had dreamed – everything was lost in the clamour of their hungry wailing mouths. They were like infants, babies, always making noise, always wanting more and more, never learning from their ever-repeated mistakes.

At last he turns away. It is done. His memories still remain, but they have taken on an ethereal quality, the distinctive look of a memory which never happened, a view of the past as it never was.

The green glow of the TARDIS – his only constant companion – casts strange shadows on his face, highlights the slump of his shoulders, the sorrow in his eyes. In that moment, the Doctor feels every one of his nine-hundred years and the choices they have brought weighing down upon him.

It had to be done, he tells himself. He had hidden from the truth for far too long, had kept running until he could lie to himself. They had become a threat, a danger to the rest of the Universe and all its inhabitants. A threat that had to be removed.

"…_humans! You grab whatever's nearest and bleed it dry…"_

He had seen them as beautiful, wonderful, radiant and shining. No matter the hardships, the adversity set in their path, the human race always overcame. They always triumphed over whatever challenges and trials were set in their path, their hardships and suffering reforging them and remaking them into something better, stronger, yet still always remaining human, always retaining that which set them apart from every other species on every planet through the universe.

Humans. He had seen them as wondrous, capable of so much love and hope and beauty. He had seen so much light, so much goodness in them. To him, the human race outshined the brightest star – and that light, like the light of the fiery sun which now illuminated the dead world below him, had blinded him. He had seen malice and wickedness in them, in their hearts, in their minds, and yet he had perceived it as determination, as a willingness to succeed. He had seen evil and cruelty, deception and deceit, but he had ignored it all.

He breaks down, weeps, his body wracked with great heaving sobs. Tears spill from his eyes, roll down his face to splash on the floor. His knees buckle, give out and he collapses to the ground. He can hear screams, cries for help in his mind, can see flames licking at them, bodies strewn on the ground. He can feel the taint of the agony shared by an entire species staining his soul, can feel their pain. He feels each death of every man, woman, child and with every death, he dies with them, over and over and over.

At last, after countless minutes, hours, days, years of grief, tears, pain, he stands. He draws one shaky hand across his face, wipes away the last of the moisture from his eyes. He walks to the controls of the TARDIS, presses buttons, turns dials, pulls levers, noticing none of it. He moves slowly, his eyes seeing so much more than what is in front of him. Memories of both the past and the future play, looping endlessly in his head.

"…_some would be inspired. Some would run away. And some would go mad" _

"_What about you?"_

"_Oh, the ones that ran away! I never stopped…"_

And with that, with the ruins of what the Doctor loved reduced to ashes behind him, he runs, flees, escapes across the vast expanse of space, seeking refuge from the pain, relief from torment, always alone. The Doctor, once a mysterious figure, manifesting only in dire need, when the voices of a thousand cried out for help, now never to be seen by any living creature again.

**Please let me know what you think :)**


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